One of the fears that has plagued me since we lost our baby is that I would somehow forget that we had a baby. It’s hard to keep the memory going in your mind when the only piece of remembrance you have is a picture of a positive pregnancy test. Last Wednesday, before I miscarried, the doctor ordered an ultrasound. At that time, the baby was still there (though much smaller than he or she was supposed to be). All we could see was a small image that looked like a pea. But it was the cutest pea I have ever seen, and an image I have tried to burn into my memory. I thought about asking for a copy of the pictures, but I was too emotional and overwhelmed to comprehend much of what was going on.
As the days have progressed, and I have had to go back to work and normal life, I have struggled with the balance between doing other things and thinking about our baby. I keep thinking that if I stop thinking about Baby Reissig then somehow he (we call our baby a he even though we didn’t know the gender) will just slip away.
I have been comforted by many women in recent days who have also lost children through miscarriage. The prevailing theme is “I still cry thinking about the baby we lost.” I know a woman who is in her 70’s and she, through teary eyes, told me that even 52 years later she still misses her baby that is now with Jesus.
The culture will try and tell us that you don’t become a mother until the baby comes through a birth canal and breathes his first breath. Until then you are just a carrier of a fetus, supposedly. To them this life is not really a baby. To us it is. Daniel and I became parents at conception. I became a mother before my baby’s heart started beating. And I still am a mother. I just don’t ever get the awesome privilege of holding my precious baby, seeing him grow up, or even teaching him about the Savior. He is already there. He is experiencing joy and comfort that is far greater than what we ever could have provided for him.
And that breaks my heart.
I wish our baby could still be here, growing inside of me. I wish today we could be getting excited about going to the doctor next week to hopefully hear the little heart beating, instead of preparing to go back in for more blood work to monitor my hormone levels.
All of these feelings and emotions of what I hoped for our baby remind me that I am a mother. While it is NEVER something I would have chosen for myself, or anyone else, it is a sorrow that has bonded me to other women like me; women who are also mothers of children in heaven. Mothers who long to hold a baby that never came. Mothers who mark due dates with tears, rather than elation. We are all mothers, even if we don’t look like it at first glance. And a mother never forgets her child.
As the days have progressed, and I have had to go back to work and normal life, I have struggled with the balance between doing other things and thinking about our baby. I keep thinking that if I stop thinking about Baby Reissig then somehow he (we call our baby a he even though we didn’t know the gender) will just slip away.
I have been comforted by many women in recent days who have also lost children through miscarriage. The prevailing theme is “I still cry thinking about the baby we lost.” I know a woman who is in her 70’s and she, through teary eyes, told me that even 52 years later she still misses her baby that is now with Jesus.
The culture will try and tell us that you don’t become a mother until the baby comes through a birth canal and breathes his first breath. Until then you are just a carrier of a fetus, supposedly. To them this life is not really a baby. To us it is. Daniel and I became parents at conception. I became a mother before my baby’s heart started beating. And I still am a mother. I just don’t ever get the awesome privilege of holding my precious baby, seeing him grow up, or even teaching him about the Savior. He is already there. He is experiencing joy and comfort that is far greater than what we ever could have provided for him.
And that breaks my heart.
I wish our baby could still be here, growing inside of me. I wish today we could be getting excited about going to the doctor next week to hopefully hear the little heart beating, instead of preparing to go back in for more blood work to monitor my hormone levels.
All of these feelings and emotions of what I hoped for our baby remind me that I am a mother. While it is NEVER something I would have chosen for myself, or anyone else, it is a sorrow that has bonded me to other women like me; women who are also mothers of children in heaven. Mothers who long to hold a baby that never came. Mothers who mark due dates with tears, rather than elation. We are all mothers, even if we don’t look like it at first glance. And a mother never forgets her child.